Dipping your hand into water in a marble bowl affixed...To the wall nobody looks at ever, or never in the day!Across...Walking in with your mind on the ones you left and, on the loss...Of everything you owned, and the ones who loss them---all at once!Across...Searching for a place to sit on a bench with a loved one missed...Or a friend, and neighbor living next door to you up the street!Across...Looking up at someone before you exalted...placing near (offering up)...One-plus-three-plus-one-plus-ten-times-five-are-fifty-and-nine roses...(And on you light seems to shine so bright from outside in through glass!)Across...As figures stare back at you in a state of flux/change so weary...From a day of work, and a time of hardship felt forgotten!Across...

Copyright (c) Unpublished, U.S.A.

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Chris' Lament by Jesus Chameleon

This concise found poem was originally accepted for publication by Verbatim Poetry. In the final analysis, however, it was considered treated and eventually did not see publication as it did not fully conform to the guidelines of that creatively and brilliant publication. Written down from a funeral mass program entitled, “Chris.”

2:55 p.m. (14:55)

08/14/13

“On the Innocent and Blue Impression of a Crowded Lament (Forever in Blue and Pictured with Lots of Stuff)”

by Jesus Chameleon

Before her patroness, a voice of a flower speaks.

Memo, the scion of a rose now gone...

Baby Kins is now dining supreme and

I'll never forget that Summer day in '68 when July comes around.

Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison for the babe, the puppy, the rattle, and the bow, all embellished in my favorite color, blue.

Upon tropical landscapes, you walked in liquid traces of rainbow imbued colors on the shoulders of a lionhearted man near the summit of childhood...your only resource was mine to keep.

The sojourn was wide and the motif was funereal.

A diminutive scent of a floral carving was ubiquitous.

The Afternoon in August we spent before on your leather seat, I saved and savored in the recesses of my mind...

It's one o'clock and a humble sacrifice---a-friend-of-my-Mother's Son---in brown is here and a small chorale occupies the pews here, too, beside your comforting icon, holding a number of lilies.

Your body floating and hands like fists lift you up as a chin, a mouse, a race car driver, a proclaimer, a hustler, two brothers side-by-side, and two (2) guests carry on...

A place in the near distance you entered six (6) places in and on the third story.

At last, together and made new,

Kyrie eleison...

The order and your proclamation like a covenant for many was only yours, today, and to the end. With candles, short, cylindrical and with a cross, you entered as a triune clan.

First from Wisdom the saved are protected by a Supreme hand. The submitted ones seemed weak---and death final---to the unjust. But, no, the immortal shall rise and He will be King. All virtue will be with the just according to Him and thanks be to God

Together and safe we responded with you in the ethereal synagogue...

He alone guides me; only Him and no other want.

The white robed one and the purest creature with a cotton-like exterior calm the whole body.

Second, a message from John proclaims that the gift from You and of Infinite Good makes us Your children, once He is revealed and thanks be to God.

Like me and like a sibling's son, you hold high the words expressed in us for you our most blessed Father and one like a scion shows us thy secret Kingdom.

The humble man in brown returns and speaks to the chalices we all hold dear and appeals to our soul for you. In you, the spirit is and in us we hope that the spirit is with the humble sacrifice. I hold high your Incarnate Word.

Clasp those gentle hands for me just this once and finally, and deliver all your now quieted petitions far and wide to the most gentle ear...for an immortal soul so just. Clasp those gentle hands and let me help you this one last time...

Centered and, otherwise, central, your form changes to a white creature and two (2) angels and an archangel bring the humble man a tongue, a heart, and an abandoned child...

The humble sacrifice holds tight the golden gifts and purifies his intentions and your petitions, and we concur that indeed they are sincere...

It is now good that the holy creature may now dwell within...

The white creature is now fully red and you are now joined to the empyrean and your ubiquitous body now by the soft-haired and cotton-like creature.

Come, Tuesday Morning, you're leaving for good my true friend...a savory instrument and chalice take with you and behold what transgression will not hold in our house.

Fly with me close to the Light of your smile...beside, the lingering incense in the room camouflages eyes full of tears...with a Litany of solid representation. Finally, the end is the beginning again on the reminiscent sea of colors and faces of a bold and beautiful and stylish image of innocence.

The creature is white once again and your cross is empty and held high by a simple rope and a note for the Helper and his staff from inside your family, from inside thanks, and from your blessings.

Jesus Chameleon is the nom de plume of a new, American Catholic poet and author of Friending (A Collecton of Poems) (unpublished), copnsidered for one of the Poetry Society's awhards, The National Chapbook Fellowships